


The Burning Heat of a Thousand Suns Can Never Compete With You

by Andfromtherewego



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Neko Atsume - Freeform, Post-Break Up, Teenlock, Virgin Sherlock, what the fuck i can't believe i used that tag but it's here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andfromtherewego/pseuds/Andfromtherewego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was doing it with John. Attaching himself to him like a barnacle to a rock. Which wasn't right. John wouldn’t like it if Sherlock showed what he truly felt about John. John would drown in it and he’d leave and Sherlock wouldn’t be able to handle that because John Watson had unknowingly become the most important person in Sherlock's life. Sherlock almost hated him for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burning Heat of a Thousand Suns Can Never Compete With You

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed, not britpicked, and again English is not my first language--and I wrote this in one day holy shit.  
> I might do a second part but I'm not yet sure.
> 
> Edit: I obviously changed the title and summary which I was going to do last night but my connection is so crappy so ta-da!

“We’re going to do things differently from now on.”

 

The mattress dipped under Irene’s weight and Sherlock instinctively rolled over so that he was facing the wall. Einstein stared back at him with his tongue sticking out, almost mocking him in his silliness. The ice bag pressed to his mouth was making a wet stain on his pillow but Sherlock paid no attention to it.

 

Irene’s hand rested on his head, her fingers carding through his hair in a way that was all-too familiar. _She should put ice on her hand_. He didn’t voice the thought. His mouth ached too much.

 

“You’re done with him.”

 

-

 

Thinking about it now, Sherlock knew that he hadn’t been in love with Victor Trevor at all.

 

But Victor had been his first relationship and Sherlock, inexperienced as he was, had put all his trust in the other boy, believing that nothing could go wrong with what they had because it was a simple relationship. And it was _Victor_ who’d _asked_. Their relationship was dinners at the restaurants near school, holding hands as they returned to their respective rooms, a few chaste kisses here and there.

 

But as it turned out, Victor was more interested in pressing random girls against walls at welcome-back-to-school parties and Sherlock had stood there, eyes widening because he’d failed at something as easy as _this_.

 

He’d made it worse by confronting Victor. Who’d punched him on the mouth.

 

Irene had punched Victor before Sherlock could retaliate then scratched his cheek for good measure. Victor had left the party with half his face bleeding and Sherlock had felt satisfaction at seeing the pain in his eyes. It had felt like a good exchange for the ache in his heart, for the humiliation.

 

It wasn’t.

 

-

 

“I’m setting you up with someone new!” Irene announced three days after the party, tugging the duvet off Sherlock with a flourish. He groaned as the light hit his eyes, his body quickly curling into a fetal position. It did the job of hiding his dick from Irene’s eyes. He’d been sleeping naked since puberty and although it wasn’t like Irene hadn’t seen him naked before, Sherlock wasn’t exactly too keen on the idea of exposing his privates to her. They _were_ called privates for a reason.

 

“Tiny,” Irene crooned and Sherlock pulled the pillow from under his head and threw it at her.

 

Irene was his best friend in the way that your only friend becomes your best friend. It wasn’t much of a choice. Her mother had dropped her off at Sherlock’s fifth birthday party and Irene had pushed Sherlock’s face in his birthday cake after telling everyone that Irene was actually adopted and that she smelled like cat poop. Even back then, Sherlock had difficulty keeping his mouth shut.

 

Everyone thought they would get married at some point because parents were weird and intrusive like that. But when they were thirteen, Irene kissed Elaine Summers on a school field trip, then promptly announced to everyone that she was, in fact, a lesbian queen and that there was no way she was going to marry her stick of a boy best friend so everyone could go pair Sherlock with someone else, thanks.

 

And as fate would have it, Sherlock would realize later on that he wasn’t, in fact, as straight as his parents had assumed.

 

There was always something.

 

“Blonds,” Irene said with a red smirk. Along with too-short skirts and skintight tops, she’d taken to wearing fire-red lipstick shortly after the ‘lol, I’m gay’ moment. It left stains on Sherlock’s cheeks whenever Irene greeted him, the marks contrasting sharply against the white of his skin.

 

“What about blonds?”

 

“Your type. Blond boys with warm brown eyes and _muscles_. Typical.”

 

Irene liked to do that. Tell Sherlock things about himself that were almost always right.

 

She’d told Sherlock he was gay and that was right.

 

Victor wasn’t blond. Victor had brown hair and green eyes and stood taller than Sherlock which was saying something because Sherlock had shot up at six feet the moment he turned sixteen, making him tower over almost everyone in his class. But he was handsome in the toothpaste commercial way and Sherlock had been attracted to his bright white smile, and even more by the fact that Victor was the second smartest student in their school, the first being Sherlock, of course.

 

Victor, according to Irene, was a dick and Sherlock was better off without him, honestly why did he even date such a bastard for such a long time? She was more offended by Victor’s cheating than Sherlock was and she’d unfriended/unfollowed him in all her social media accounts, which according to Sherlock’s research on the dull habits of normal teenagers, was the greatest form of a red flag announcement. Victor hung in the same circle as Irene, a circle that Sherlock did his best to stay away from because the circle included violent rugby boys who hooted at Sherlock and yelled the most uncreative slurs whenever he walked past the field. And now it included his ex-boyfriend. Or, well, ex-something because Victor probably hadn’t thought of him as a boyfriend at all.

 

-

 

Victor avoided him like the plague. The school was large enough but as he and Sherlock had many advanced classes together, seeing him was unavoidable. Irene had broken his nose and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile smugly at the sight of the white bandage smack in the middle of Victor’s face.

 

It wasn’t until lunch that the satisfaction turned into dismay.

 

Virgin.

 

The rugby boys hooted, laughing when Sherlock entered the dining hall. The King of Virgins.  The Virgin Freak. “The _Queen_ ,” another yelled and all of Sherlock’s snide retorts died inside when he saw Victor laughing.

 

Oh. So that was why Victor cheated on him.

 

-

 

“Sex isn’t everything, Sherlock.”

 

It was a lie. Coming from Irene, Sherlock knew it was a lie, because sex mattered to Irene in the way that she seriously considered it a basic need, like food and water.

 

Sherlock didn’t know (nor did he want to know) how Irene lost her virginity but she’d been sexually active since she was fourteen, to the shock of her adoptive parents who were a bit of the religious and conservative kind. But they couldn’t stop Irene. _No one_ could stop Irene. Elaine Summers hadn’t been her first victim (and yes Sherlock used that term because whenever he caught Irene’s partners walk-of-shaming they had this look on their face, like they’d been caught in a tornado—and quite possibly ropes and chains because Irene had once, to Sherlock’s dismay, told him of her interest in BDSM). Her first victim was Sherlock’s cousin of all people and Sherlock had made faces all day because there were 7.3 billion people in the world, did she have to sleep with one of Sherlock’s relatives?

 

“Imagine, me and Mycroft, though,” Irene had joked and Sherlock had gagged. Because Mycroft and sex were just things you didn’t related to each other.

 

He wasn’t asexual. He knew that. He glanced at men and some caught his interest, some of them even sparking thoughts of what they might look like naked, what their stubble would feel like against Sherlock’s skin. He wondered what sex would be like, would _feel_ like, and well he was a hormonal teenage boy he did masturbate from time to time. But his sex drive was low, much lower compared to his peers who always seemed to be gagging for it, and if he did experience attraction he never acted on it.

 

He didn’t feel safe.

 

Victor hadn’t made him feel safe. Victor had pushed, had wanted the kissing to turn into something more, and Sherlock had always made excuses because Victor’s hands on him didn’t feel right.

 

The Virgin Freak.

 

“Honestly, Sherlock, you’re pretty but this is too much,” Victor had once remarked upon seeing the experiment Sherlock was working on. It involved tsetse fly larvae and Sherlock had been proud of it but the look on Victor’s face had killed that, had made him disgusted of himself because who would want to stay in a relationship with someone so interested in dissecting insects? He thought of that often. If he’d made more effort, had tried to be normal for once, then maybe Victor wouldn’t have cheated on him.

 

He wasn’t in love with Victor. He didn’t much regret their relationship ending.

 

But it was the idea he liked. That someone as odd as him could have a boyfriend.

 

And now, he didn’t even have that.

 

-

 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“John,” he grinned. “John Watson.”

 

-

 

Mike Stamford introduced him to John as ‘the bloke that practically lives in the lab, do not feed when you see him’. Mike was in Sherlock’s class, the quiet round-faced boy who was the only one who never seemed annoyed whenever Sherlock thought that it was a good time to argue with one of the teachers. Sherlock had only talked to him twice, the first when Sherlock deduced him (only child, geologist parents, wanted to teach one day), the second when Sherlock asked to borrow a pen so he could stab Patrick Greenwood’s loud mouth with it.

 

The introduction wasn’t entirely inappropriate in Sherlock’s opinion because they _were_ in a lab and technically Sherlock did spend a lot of his time here because the dorm mother didn’t like how Sherlock kept all those weird things in his room and while she was fond of him, she would chase him out with a broom if he ever made something explode _again_.

 

“Bit different from my old school,” John said. He wore a rugby jacket over an awful oatmeal jumper and when he reached out to shake Sherlock’s hand in greeting, Sherlock saw that it was shaking.

 

Or it was Sherlock’s hand that was trembling like a leaf.

 

Blond hair, Sherlock noted as he looked at John’s smiling face. Muscles, _definitely_.

 

But blue eyes.

 

Well, he did like blue eyes more than brown ones.

 

-

 

John Watson, Sherlock learned, moved from his school in Edinburgh to Sherlock’s boarding school as a scholar. His mother had died of alcohol poisoning, his father had been out of the picture years before, leaving him and his brother—wait, _sister_ —in the care of an aunt who claimed was keen on getting her niece and nephew a proper education. But which Sherlock believed was really just an excuse to not have to watch over them 24/7. The board had taken one look at John’s grades and his rugby prowess and had welcome him with open arms (and possibly tears because while Sherlock didn’t give a damn about rugby, he wasn’t as ignorant about his school to not know that they’d been dying for a chance to win a rugby match for years).

 

John hadn’t told him anything. Sherlock had _read_ everything on him.

 

And well, he also checked out the FAQ section of his blog.

 

John ran a Tumblr blog with a rather large following and Sherlock remembered that he’d stumbled across it months before he even met John, because John had done a simple but enlightening write up about the decline in the bee population. It was an odd post in John’s sea of posts about sports and teen self-help and movie reblogs and mainstream book reviews but Sherlock had liked that post so much he’d created an account just so he could click the little red heart at the corner. That was really the only time he’d ever used that account.

 

John for some strange reason seemed to _like_ Sherlock, probably in the way people like exotic animals. His room was two doors down from Sherlock’s and John had passed by him in the hallway, grinning and saying ‘hey, you’re that kid my friend Mike introduced to me.’ And the hallway conversations had gotten longer and longer with Sherlock blushing every time John called him ‘brilliant’, until finally, John told Sherlock that they ought to just hang out somewhere that wasn’t a hallway because people were trying to get to their own rooms and they kept blocking the way.

 

“You’re the most non-millennial millennial I’ve ever met,” John told him, pulling Sherlock out of his mind palace which he’d been organizing all morning, and Sherlock was offended because really?

 

He had the latest iPhone and a MacBook and maybe he didn’t do social media much because ugh, dull and Starbucks was shite but at least he was updated in the tech. And knew how to use it. John pecked at his laptop like an arthritic.

 

“Yes, but in _attitude_. You don’t have the same attitude.” His accent was soft, diluted from moving back-and-forth Edinburgh and London. Sherlock could pick out the Scottish brogue only when John raised his voice.

 

“Have you taken into consideration that I am, unlike a majority of our peers, not an idiot?”

 

They were in the library because Irene was on a date (who the girl was, Sherlock didn’t care, because Irene tended to change partners as fast as changing clothes) and Sherlock didn’t know where to go when Irene wasn’t with him, and also because part of John’s scholarship was that he would help out in the library whenever there wasn’t an upcoming game.

 

“But anyway,” John continued, ignoring the fact that Sherlock had insulted the people in their school. Again. “It’s like you belong in the Victorian era, maybe. Fits, to be honest, with those cheekbones of yours you wouldn’t be out of place.”

 

Sherlock ducked his head and oh this was awful, why was he blushing? It was just a simple comment about cheekbones and well Sherlock had never thought much about his cheekbones because they were just sharp bones sticking underneath the skin of his face. Who thought about facial bones, anyway?

 

“Victorian era,” Sherlock snorted. “I wouldn’t last a day in 1895. They’d ship me off with Oscar Wilde right away.”

 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It came out too fast and Sherlock was hoping that John wouldn’t get the reference but from the way his eyes widened a fraction, Sherlock knew that John was thinking ‘gay’. Probably shouting it in his mind with rainbow confetti and pink clouds of smoke and dear god, John wasn’t going to be a homophobic arse and hit him here, was he? In a library of all places?

 

“I’m—” Sherlock started, ready to remedy the situation but John sat up and began to wave his hands in front of him frantically.

 

“It’s fine!” he cried, voice too loud and several heads turned their way. The librarian hissed at them and John turned to mutter an apology.

 

“It’s fine,” he assured again in a quieter tone. His smile was small, conspiratorial, and Sherlock felt fourteen again, his emotions too high when his father had patted his back and told him that it was okay, they accepted him for who he was, he didn’t have to hide his sexuality with them.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat then nodded in acknowledgement, not daring to use his voice because there was an odd lump in his throat and John Watson was still looking at him with that soft smile on his face.

 

-

 

“My, my, you sure work fast.”

 

“He’s not—”

 

“Oh, no, darling, he’s _next_.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Irene who laughed and even had the gall to pinch his cheek. Class had just ended and Irene had snuck in Sherlock’s room out of habit, only to find that John Watson was already there, sitting on Sherlock’s bed and listening to Sherlock’s deductions about a homicide they saw in the morning news. His eyes had widened upon seeing Irene then he’d looked disbelievingly at Sherlock and Sherlock hadn’t understood, hadn’t thought anything about it.

 

Until John approached him the next day, hesitant and not looking at Sherlock when he said, “Irene’s not your girlfriend is she?”

 

A beat. And then Sherlock made a face because ew, gross, no, no, just a million times _no._

 

“Childhood friend,” Sherlock explained and he gave John a look that said ‘I told you, well, implied that I’m gay, didn’t I?’

 

“Okay, okay, just checking,” John said happily (?). “So. I’ve got my first practice with the rugby team later on. Do you maybe want to support me? I could always use some sarcastic comments about balls and—”

 

“I can’t,” Sherlock cut him off and John’s mouth snapped shut, the cheeriness in his eyes fading quickly. Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t like rugby.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. He was neutral about sports but he did find the prospect of seeing John Watson in rugby shorts and knee socks appealing. But there would be teasing and catcalls if he showed up and the longer John Watson thought that Sherlock stayed under the radar like most of the students here, the longer he’d continue to talk to him.

 

Pathetic.

 

“Well. Wish me luck then.” He paused; he seemed unsure of what to do. John scratched the back of his neck then reached out to squeeze Sherlock’s bicep and Sherlock’s breath hitched because John was touching him. Except for Irene, and well, Victor, no one touched him. “See you later.”

 

It sounded like a promise and Sherlock’s heart was beating too fast in his rib cage as he watched John walk away.

 

-

 

Mycroft had gotten a new car. It was a sleek black spy movie car and Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother who merely smirked at him in way that was familiarly disturbing. Sherlock himself smirked like that and Sherlock inwardly cringed because he'd just acknowledge one of their (many) similarities.

 

“I see that your relationship with Mr Trevor has ended,” Mycroft said and Sherlock groaned. The drive back home was an hour long and Sherlock would be stuck here with his interfering older brother, discussing about his _past relationship_. Sherlock thought about opening the door and throwing himself out in a desperate attempt for freedom, but Mycroft’s driver and bodyguard Ernst would just haul him over his shoulder and stuff him in the backseat (he’d done it before). Besides, the nagging from his mother wouldn’t be worth it.

 

His parents insisted that Sherlock come home every Saturday with Mycroft, and because Mycroft was on his way to become the British government and definitely much busier than their sixteen-year-old son, if he could make that promise then surely Sherlock could? Sherlock didn’t argue with that logic—couldn’t, rather—because it was his father’s request and Sherlock wasn’t going to deny him anything anymore.

 

Stage 4 cancer, the doctors said.

 

His father refused chemotherapy, didn’t think it would be worth it because he was sixty anyway, and he was more than ready to go to the ground when the time came. “Money’s not going to save me, sweetheart,” he’d said to Sherlock and Sherlock had nodded, the logical part of his mind telling him that his father’s decision not to go through chemo was right even when his emotions battled and made him feel like he was seven-years-old and Mummy was telling him that she was so sorry but Redbeard had to be put down, Sherlock understood, right? Nothing lasted forever.

 

It had been very hard to not cry.

 

“You’re getting slow,” Sherlock snapped, willing the memory to move to the deepest recesses of his mind palace where it belonged. “It ended _days_ ago.”

 

And you’ve gotten fatter, he wanted to say because teasing Mycroft was always worth it. He bit his lip but the chuckle still escaped his lips and Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously.

 

“My brother,” Sherlock had told John the day before when he asked where Sherlock was going on a Saturday. “He’s picking me up. Fat and pompous git that he is, it’s going to be a dreadful ride.”

 

“Fat huh?” John had asked. Then he’d taken his phone, clicked an app, then showed Sherlock a 2D game that Sherlock thought was cute in a vague way (of course he didn’t mention it because Sherlock Holmes didn’t say the word ‘cute’).

 

Cats. John Watson had 2D cats in his phone and Sherlock would later find out that Neko Atsume was a trending thing and that their teachers probably had it installed in their own phones, but at the time, Sherlock had thought it endearing that John carried around 2D cats in his pocket.

 

“This,” John said, pointing to a rather fat white 2D cat lying near an empty blue bowl, “is your brother.”

 

Sherlock had laughed so hard he cried and John had grinned then fiddled with Sherlock’s own phone to install the app.

 

Sherlock checked it now to see if the fat white cat had shown up. Mycroft would call him childish but Sherlock had never grown out of mocking Mycroft about his weight and honestly the cat _did_ look like Mycroft. But it wasn’t there yet and Sherlock checked it idly before moving to his messages. A few from Irene, several from his mother, and that was about it because Sherlock never saved his contacts and no one texted him either (he’d deleted all Victor’s texts a few days ago).

 

Except.

 

There was new name listed in his contacts and Sherlock’s mouth fell open.

 

John Watson had given him his number. He’d installed Neko Atsume in Sherlock’s phone then placed his number there and it was strangely poetic and, dare he say it, almost romantic.

 

He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Mycroft thankfully didn’t comment on it.

 

-

 

Yahoo Answers told him that the normal moving on period after a relationship should be three to six months.

 

Sherlock had never been normal, anyway.

 

-

 

“Who’s your boy toy, Johnny?”

 

She looked like a female version of John, but shorter and there was a mole over her right eyebrow that could pass for a black piercing. The sister, Sherlock’s mind supplied even as another part of his brain squawked at being called a boy toy, especially _John’s_. John spluttered. He looked ready to throw at her the hardbound copy of Huckleberry Finn in his hands, but that would get him into trouble with the librarian who was already side-eyeing them.

 

“Pretty one, ain’t he?” Her accent was stronger than John’s. Harry, John had mentioned in passing, was his twin, the elder of the two of them, and the board had scooped her up despite her below-average grades because she was an insanely good swimmer and the school would take all the star athletes, just to rise from the humiliation of last year’s intramurals. Sherlock had never seen them together before and John didn’t have to say it, it was obvious that their relationship was strained, pulled tight like a rubber band and on the edge of breaking.

 

“Don’t call, Sherlock pretty,” John hissed, and Sherlock clamped his mouth shut because he wouldn’t mind if _John_ called him that. He’d minded when Victor had because Victor had leered at him whenever he said it and it had always made Sherlock uncomfortable because there was the implication that Victor only liked him for his looks, which, Sherlock was guessing, was not a good thing. But John’s attention had shifted to his sister who was now staring at Sherlock with the awe little kids reserved for zoo creatures.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?”

 

She smirked and Sherlock froze, because fuck he was stupid, how could he forget? Victor was part of the boys’ swim team and there was no doubt about it. Harry _knew_.

 

“Victor’s ex? What are the boys callin’ ya? The Virgin Freak, I think?”

 

Her tone wasn’t cruel. She didn’t mean it to be cruel because she wouldn’t have anything against Sherlock, they didn’t even know each other. But he knew that it was the first time John was hearing about what the boys were saying about him because he was looking at Sherlock curiously, almost cautiously.

 

It was _humiliating._

 

“Ihavetogo,” he mumbled and before John could protest he stood up, almost knocking his chair back in haste.

 

John didn’t follow him.

 

It was disappointing and Sherlock even slowed down, hoping that John would run after him, demanding answers. But he didn’t and Sherlock pursed his lips and moved on.

 

-

 

“Trevor, really?” John asked the next morning and Sherlock cringed, now realizing that it was better if John never asked him about his ex. Ever. Especially as Irene was seated next to him. She took her headphones off then raised one eyebrow at Sherlock who narrowed his eyes back at her. She would dig her fingernails into his arm and force the story out of him later and it would be annoying but right now, right now he had to deal with John who was still looking at him like Sherlock had suddenly sprung two heads.

 

“It was a _mistake_ ,” Sherlock grouched.

 

A huge mistake.

 

The thing about first relationships, Sherlock realized, was that you would always compare them to your next ones. Even if you didn’t like them. Because that was what Sherlock was doing right now. He kept comparing John to Victor, like the way John was looking at him, even though Sherlock didn’t have the right because John wasn’t gay, John was straight and all the girls liked him and posted compliments on his Facebook wall and John would like them back and someone always had a crush one John. Because having a crush on John was so _easy_ it seemed like the natural thing to do. Besides, even if John was gay, he wouldn’t like Sherlock because Sherlock was freaky and liked crime and didn’t do social media which John was all about and—

 

“It was the most horrible decision Sherlock made in his life,” Irene sighed in a dreamy tone and Sherlock turned to glare at her because she was making it so much worse. _Drop it_. She rolled her eyes at him.

 

“Oh?” John quipped.

 

“Yu _p_.” And oh god why was Irene looking at him like that? She gave John her cattiest smile then said, “See, he isn’t even Sherlock’s _type_.”

 

-

 

The name-calling stopped shortly after that. The change was so sudden that Sherlock actually paused in front of the field for a few moments, waiting for one of the rugby players to call him a poof or a fair or a pathetic gay virgin. It was part of his routine and to not have that happen was like running into a brick wall.

 

They stared at him but that was all they did and Sherlock looked around, wondering if it was an ambush and if he would end up locked in a janitor’s closet with jockstrap tied around his mouth, when he saw him.

 

John Watson in full rugby regalia, waving at him.

 

They’d made him rugby captain two days ago and Sherlock blinked, his cheeks reddening at the realization that John Watson had stopped the bullying for _him_.

 

-

 

“It’s because he’s interested in you!” Irene cried, throwing her hands up in despair, “He wants to snog the lights out of you!” And Sherlock jumped up, yelled that he’d put his father on speakerphone and this was _not_ something he’d want to hear, but his father’s guffaw cut through that and Sherlock flushed then flopped down the bed, his body immediately curling into Sulk Pose #2.

 

“He’s sulking, isn’t he?” his father asked and Sherlock snorted.

 

Before Victor, before the cancer, Sherlock had never talked to either of his parents about his relationships because it was embarrassing and he _was_ a teenage boy. But it had been his father’s request to be updated with Sherlock’s life and since neither Mummy nor dear god _Mycroft_ were any good with social skills, Sherlock relented. Besides, it was getting harder and harder to say no to his father’s requests.

 

His father hadn’t liked Victor, Sherlock remembered. But he hadn’t protested because Sherlock was old enough to choose for himself. Mummy had protested and Sherlock wondered whether or not his relationship with Victor had been a bit of a rebellious act. Then again, Mummy, if she were to find out, would also be disapproving of his infatuation with John because he was a baby, her darling, and he was too young to have a relationship, like kids his age weren’t already having sex like rabbits.

 

“He sounds like a sweet boy, Sherlock,” his father teased and Sherlock grumbled. It sounded approving and Sherlock wanted to say that there wasn’t anything to approve of.

 

-

 

Sherlock checked John’s Tumblr with the same frequency Sherlock checked his cartoon cats. John didn’t update often and a majority of his posts were reblogs, but Sherlock only really cared for John’s personal tag, the short updates for his followers to see that he was still alive and kicking but school and rugby were keeping him from his online life, sorry.

 

There was an ask that John had answered and Sherlock would have dismissed it as another admiring grey circle (John had more online admirers than real life ones and Sherlock, when he wasn’t hazy from his infatuation with John, did wonder how someone who didn’t have much friends became so popular because the real John, or rather the John that Sherlock knew, could be as grumpy and impatient as an old man guarding his lawn). He would have dismissed it if it wasn’t for John’s reply.

 

_Are you seeing someone ;)_

And Sherlock’s heart thudded quickly, hopefully, because John had replied with:

 

_I’m about to._

 

-

 

“We have a game on Saturday,” John said and Sherlock let disappointment wash over him because it wasn’t him, John hadn’t been talking to that floating grey head about him because he was inviting _everyone_. Sherlock felt dumb. Pathetic, stupid.

 

“You could go?” John asked and he looked at Irene who hummed a maybe then at Sherlock who was about to say no and it wouldn’t have been out of place because he went home every Saturday anyway, and while John had yet to know about his sick father, he wouldn’t be disappointed because it wasn’t like he _needed_ Sherlock there. But Irene kicked him under the table and widened her eyes at him and Sherlock, to his horror, found himself saying yes.

 

It was too cruel to crush the joy in John’s face so Sherlock kept the ‘no’ to himself.

 

“Why did you do that?!” Sherlock demanded shortly after John had gone with one of his rugby mates. Irene shrugged.

 

“Look, John’s got a gaggle of girls at his beck and call at every rugby game and one of them is bound to a bit gay and I’ve been horny for _months_ , Sherlock, there is no way I’m passing a chance to get my head between some cute girl’s thighs,” she said and Sherlock choked on his own spit. “Besides, John and I aren’t close and it would be strange if I came there alone. I don’t go to rugby games, either.”

 

“We’re going for the sake of your libido?” Sherlock griped.

 

“Yup!” Irene said cheerily. She kissed his cheek, staining it red. “Besides, I already texted your father.” She winked at him. “He said to go get him, sweetheart.”

 

She sped away before Sherlock could kick her.

 

-

 

He had never watched a rugby match. It wasn’t uncommon to _not_ watch. They’d never had a chance to win before, and after several losses, people became less interested in sitting on a cold bench to watch their team get pummeled to the ground.

 

Until John.

 

John was a master at rugby.

 

Sherlock didn’t understand the mechanics of the game, but it turned out that you didn’t have to understand how it was played to be able to appreciate the sight of a sweaty, mud-stained John Watson in his rugby shorts. His gut clenched when he saw that he wasn’t the only one to take notice. There were girls cheering for John and Sherlock scowled when John waved at them.

 

Right. Well. It wasn’t him, whoever John was about to ask out.

 

It was a long match and Sherlock, after tearing his eyes away from the girls, tried to focus on the actual game. He didn’t understand what was going on but it seemed that they were winning, if the enthusiastic yells of his schoolmates were anything to go by. But his eyes kept moving back to John, until he couldn’t even look at anyone else, so it surprised him when, once the game was over and there was cheering and backslapping everywhere, he saw that Irene was no longer sitting beside him.

 

Great, Sherlock thought when he spotted Irene. She’d made her way to what Sherlock assumed was John’s fan club, the top two buttons of her shirt already undone. Most of the girls ignored her but there were one or two who showed interest and Sherlock already knew that he wouldn’t be able to contact Irene later. She’d tell him everything about it tomorrow, whether he liked it or not.

 

He sat there for a while, waiting until everyone in his row was gone before standing up and making his way down. What to do? Go back to his dorm, perhaps, then congratulate John via text. John would want to celebrate with his mates, would probably drink a few beers then pass out in someone’s dorm. Or they’d have a party in one of the day students’ nearby house and John would drink and laugh at some pretty girl’s joke and he’d celebrate his victory with her and—and—

 

Sherlock didn’t want to think about what happened after that.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

He stopped, startled, his left foot hovering over the last step of the metal stairs.

 

“Where are you going?” John asked. He’d showered and changed into a striped jumper and Sherlock’s mind gleefully pointed out how the darker of the blue stripes matched John’s eyes. Sherlock told it to fuck off.

 

“Back to my dorm,” Sherlock replied and John’s smile faded. He licked his lips which Sherlock had noted was a nervous habit of John’s, then said, “But…I was wondering if you’d like to eat first?”

 

Sherlock blinked. “Don’t you want to celebrate with your team? Isn’t that the normal thing to do?” Sherlock wouldn’t know because he wasn’t, as the rugby team had once said, exactly normal. But John was shaking his head and before Sherlock could say anything, John’s hand was on his arm and he was drawing him away from the field. John Watson. Touching him. Again.

 

“Please?” John said. “I’m hungry and there’s a new place I’d like to try.” He tried a grin but there was something wrong with it although Sherlock couldn’t point out _what_. “Besides, you always skip dinner and I decided that I’m going to be your personal dietician.”

 

-

 

It was a small café with bad coffee but good pasta but Sherlock couldn’t even think about the food because the table was small and beneath it, his knees kept bumping into John’s. There was a candle and the chirpy waitress wearing a Have No Fear, I’m Your Queer Mom shirt told him that it was to keep the flies away. Everyone had a candle on their table, Sherlock could see that, and he wouldn’t have minded, but John Watson looked too good in candlelight and his mind kept coming up with the word ‘date’. Which this _wasn’t_. He was tense as a spring and he kept his mouth glued together because he didn’t trust himself. He could say something true, something extremely embarrassing that would end his friendship with John forever.

 

_I like you. A lot._

_I want to kiss you._

_I’m sexually-attracted to you. So much. It’s hard to think._

 

_I want you to touch me._

His mother had said that he got attached too easily. They’d never been around much when he was younger, too busy with their jobs, and their love had come in the form of books and educational toys sent from abroad, but it had never been enough. Sherlock was _starved_ for affection but only a few people gave it to him and Sherlock tried to stop when Irene had made a joke about him being ‘too clingy’, a joke that Sherlock knew was based on a truth.

 

It disgusted him. It could ruin him.

 

He was doing it with John. Attaching himself to him like a barnacle to a rock. Which wasn't  _right_. John wouldn’t like it if Sherlock showed what he truly felt about John. John would drown in it and he’d leave and Sherlock wouldn’t be able to handle that because John Watson had unknowingly become the most important person in Sherlock's life. Sherlock almost hated him for it.

 

“Hey.”

 

A hand settled over his and Sherlock closed his eyes. When he opened them again it was to John staring at him with concern. _Is something wrong?_ The question was there but John didn’t seem to want to say it out loud. Instead, his thumb began to rub over the back of Sherlock’s hand soothingly.

 

“Sherlock,” John said. It was a warning and Sherlock blinked, and before he could ask, John was leaning in and anything Sherlock was about to say died against John Watson’s lips.

 

It made him shudder, made his heart beat too fast, and Sherlock began to feel like he was _drowning_. But in the best way possible.

 

-

 

“I didn’t mean to do that,” John said later.

 

“Kiss you immediately, I mean,” John added before the giddiness in Sherlock’s heart could turn into fear and embarrassment that John made a mistake. John sounded frustrated with himself. The park bench was cold and it was dark save for the yellow glow of the lamppost above them, but John’s hand was still in Sherlock’s and that was enough to warm him. “I was going to do something romantic and ask you out properly but you look,” he shrugged, blushing and Sherlock watched, fascinated, at how the tips of his ears turn red. “Er, you look good in candlelight.”

 

Oh.

 

“I didn’t think you were interested.”

 

John whipped his head so fast Sherlock was afraid he might get whiplash. “Not interested?!” John blurted and here it was, the side his online and real life followers didn’t get to see. The impatient, lawn guardian side of John. “Sherlock, I gave you my number and text you every day. I keep following you around and I compliment your hair on a daily basis. I take notice of your _cheekbones_. I don’t do that to any of my friends. I thought I was being obvious, drooling every time you wear that purple shirt, _god_.”

 

Sherlock frowned. “The Dolce and Gabanna one?”

 

“I don’t know! The purple one that looks spray-painted on your chest, _that_ one.”

 

John sighed, defeated. “Look, I wanted to ask you out earlier. Hell, seconds after I met you actually, but then I learned that you’re the top student here and rich as hell and you just seemed so unattainable.” His voice became flat, when he added, “Then I learned from Harry that you recently broke up with someone, the _second_ smartest kid in school, and I thought that maybe it was too soon and besides I probably didn’t have a chance with you anyway because I’m not a genius like you—or _him_. But then Irene—”

 

“What does she have to do with this?” Sherlock snapped, and John giggled. It _was_ a giggle, sweet and high-pitched and Sherlock’s heart skipped at the sound of it. Everything was right with the world if he could make John Watson laugh like that.

 

“She mentioned that Victor isn’t your type then I may have pestered her for a bit and she implied that I had a shot with you so—”

 

“You asked me out.” Sherlock’s eyes widened in realization. Floating grey head. A smiley face. “The date. I’m your date! The one you told that person. The one in your blog!”

 

John’s brow furrowed. “You check my Tumblr?”

 

“Yes!”

 

Oh. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. It sounded like he was some sort of stalker (but he was, sort of). “Not good?” Sherlock asked, holding his breath.

 

“No, it’s okay.” John grinned at him and to Sherlock’s delight he pressed his mouth against his, catching Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own.

 

Sherlock often compared John to Victor because Victor was his basis even though that relationship had been a failure. His first kiss had been too rough, too much teeth and Sherlock hadn’t even responded because he was too shocked that Victor Trevor was kissing him. His first kiss with John was soft, sweet and it was stupidly cliché but he did feel like there were fireworks going off somewhere in the distance because that was what the inside of his chest felt like when John Watson had his mouth on him.

 

But Sherlock would make that comparison later.

 

Right now, kissing John Watson obliterated everything else in his mind.

 

-

 

Irene screamed.

 

It was the sharp, bird-like cry girls made whenever they were excited, the kind that gave Sherlock a headache. “Shut up!” he yelled but Irene couldn’t be stopped and he had to endure a few seconds of her slapping his arm excitedly before she finally quieted.

 

Well, quieted _a bit_.

 

“I’m so proud,” she sniffed and oh god she was actually _crying_. Who did that? “I’m so proud of my gay son.”

 

“You’re not my mother. I don’t need two, my biological one is more than enough for several lifetimes.”

 

“Oh shut up and let me have my moment.”

 

She smacked John’s arm as well when he came to pick Sherlock up and John had rolled his eyes and said, “With all that noise you’re making, the dorm mother will come here and find you and she’ll think we’re having some freaky threesome.”

 

“Oh, honey,” Irene said with a well-practiced flip of her hair, shifting to her glorious persona in the blink of an eye. “Everyone knows I’m the _queen_ of lesbians.”

 

-

 

John melded into his life in a way Victor never had.

 

He was still John’s friend and that wasn’t going to change. John still made him watch his silly James Bonds and showed him library books with the greatest crimes in the 20th century and he still fought with Sherlock over his eating habits because ‘you can’t keep skipping meals, Sherlock, you’ll get ulcer’. But John also held his hand and wrapped an arm around his waist when it was cold and when Sherlock put his father on speakerphone, he was there to tease Sherlock and try and get information about Sherlock’s childhood which always prompted Sherlock to grab his pillow and throw it at John (“You refused to wear pants when you were three?” “Shut up!”). He called his father by his first name and he’d even managed to survive a Skype call with Sherlock’s _mother_ who scowled at the mere thought of people having a _crush_ on her baby son, especially after what happened with Victor, and it wasn’t right that Sherlock got a new boyfriend so quickly after his breakup. She’d been disapproving at first but John could be charming when he wanted to be and now she kept insisting that Sherlock bring his boyfriend home so they could meet him properly.

 

Which made Sherlock press the off button of his laptop in a hurry.

 

John introduced him to his teachers--to strangers, even--as his boyfriend although he didn’t have to do it. He’d given Sherlock his spare rugby jacket a few days before and Sherlock walked around campus with the name Watson emblazoned on his back, always attracting some disbelieving stares from John’s admirers. Because really? The rugby captain and the freaky genius? It was like a reality show!

 

It was, according to Irene, disgustingly sweet. And Sherlock would agree because he’d made fun of couples like that before, but it turned out when you were the one in that kind of relationship, you didn’t mind how much of a YA romance novel your life had turned.

 

And the kissing. The kissing was new.

 

John _really_ liked to kiss Sherlock.

 

“Your fucking mouth,” John always said then he’d grab the front of Sherlock’s shirt and press him against the nearest wall, his tongue sliding beside Sherlock’s and Sherlock would moan, would make sounds that would have appalled him, but it didn’t matter when John Watson’s hands were on him, when John’s mouth was on his _neck_ , god he'd never thought that his neck could be that sensitive. Sherlock’s eyes glazed over whenever he thought about it and Irene would snap her fingers in front of his face then smile knowingly at him when he noticed.

 

He was slowly turning into a sex-crazed rabbit.

 

He was even late to one class because of snogging John and he’d come in through the back door, his clothes askew and his pupils probably still dilated and Mrs. Abadi’s eye had twitched at the sight of his neck. Hickeys. Sherlock Holmes had never come to class with hickeys before. Victor had looked infuriated at the sight of it but he kept his mouth shut, his eyes focused on the whiteboard the entire time.

 

The star pupil was finally, _finally_ getting laid.

 

 Only he wasn’t.

 

“If you don’t want to I’m okay with that. But if you do…I want to wait,” John said when Sherlock asked if John expected them to have sex. He couldn’t _not_ ask because that was why Victor cheated on him in the first place, and it was better to know now how much time he had with John, because while the idea was appealing (no lie about that, he was more than interested to see what John Watson looked like naked), he wasn’t _ready_.

 

He was afraid.

 

He was afraid that John was only with him for sex and that he’d leave when he finally got what he wanted because there were people who had that kink, right? They got off by corrupting virgins and while Sherlock was in no way innocent, he was clueless when it came to sex.

 

John had had sex. Sherlock didn’t even have to ask; he just _knew_. And Sherlock was jealous of John for that, because when they’d finally do it, John wouldn’t be some bumbling idiot who’d go off like a rocket after ten seconds.

 

“You idiot,” John told him. It was fond and Sherlock wasn’t even offended because John Watson was giving him his brilliant 100-watt smile, the one that never failed to make Sherlock’s knees weak, the one he always flashed Sherlock at every rugby game, as if to announce to the world that yeah, his boyfriend was watching so he was going to win this thing. “I won’t be as suave as you think.” His hands found their place on Sherlock’s hips. It was like they’d been made to hold Sherlock there. Those hands made him feel safe.

 

“Yes you will. You have the experience.”

 

“I do,” John insisted. “But it’s _you_. You’re different.”

 

He leaned against him, his nose finding its way to the crook of Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock felt him press a chaste kiss on the spot. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

-

 

They made it to four months before Sherlock found himself sliding onto his knees in front of John, John’s hand gripping his hair, and Sherlock made a new wing in his mind palace for the way John Watson’s cock felt in his mouth.

 

-

 

“I’m going to die.”

 

John snorted. “Don’t be so overdramatic.”

 

He wasn’t being overdramatic, because John’s fingers were in his arse and it was the most glorious thing Sherlock had ever felt and he was going to die. He was going to die with John’s fingers in his arse and there was nothing John could do about it. They were going to write it up on his death certificate and John’s fingers were going to jail and getting a life sentence for sending Sherlock’s soul to the dirtiest parts of hell.

 

“Breathe,” John said. Then he nosed a spot on his inner thigh and _bit_.

 

Sherlock yelped.

 

“What—” he started but John had moved his way up and placed his mouth on him for a sloppy kiss. Sherlock could feel his cock against his thigh, hot and hard and _large_ , and he moaned, his whole body quivering when John sucked a mark on the side of his neck.

 

“I should get you a scarf,” John whispered and Sherlock giggled, smiling when John kissed the corner of his mouth chastely, a sharp contrast to the way his fingers were moving inside Sherlock, brushing against his prostate in a way that made him want to _scream_.

 

He’d never, in his wildest dreams, thought that he would lose his virginity in school. Or that he would have his first time with John Watson.

 

_Pfftt. Rabbit. He was a sex-crazed_ rabbit _._

“Ready?” John asked and Sherlock wanted to slap him, tell him that he was ready _hours_ ago, but John took foreplay to a whole new level. He’d been bringing Sherlock on and off the edge, sucking his cock, his nipples, and now fingering him so slowly he could cry. John was crazy about bringing Sherlock off, delighted in the way his face looked when he orgasmed. He wasn’t even shy about it. “I like the way you look before you come all over my hand,” he’d said and Sherlock had flushed, making John giggle.

 

“I’m ready,” Sherlock yelled. “I am. John— _please_.”

 

“Okay, okay.” He hitched his leg over one shoulder and Sherlock’s frustration dissipated somewhat when John’s expression became gentle, concerned. “Tell me if it hurts, alright?”

 

John wasn’t watching him. John was watching the slow slide of his cock into Sherlock’s body, his breath hitching, and Sherlock wanted to look as well, wanted to keep looking at John’s face, but his eyes were squeezed shut. It _hurt_. Sherlock wasn’t going to lie; it burned like hell and he was probably sobbing, probably clawing at John’s back, but John was slow, careful, and most of the burn faded away once he was finally fully inside Sherlock.

 

Deep. Full.

 

“Ngghh.” Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John trembling above him. “I’m going to die,” John said and this time, Sherlock was the one to laugh.

 

“Overdramatic.”

 

“I’m _inside_ you,” John said, his voice reverent and Sherlock let out a deep breath. John was inside him. John was over him, around him, and Sherlock was suddenly brimming with emotion. He could feel his eyes burning and Sherlock squeezed them shut, not wanting to cry. _I love you._ But no, it was too early and he didn’t want to say it for the first time when his mind was hazed by endorphins.

 

“Move.”

 

John kept the pace slow, his hands holding Sherlock’s hips down to steady him, and the pain morphed into pleasure after the first four thrusts. He knew he was writhing like a cat in heat because it felt so good but he didn’t mind because John was moaning his name and stroking his cock in time to his thrusts. John Watson who waited for him outside his class and who kissed his forehead and held him like he was most precious thing in the universe.

 

It was _right_. John Watson felt right.

 

“Sherlock.” John stilled and Sherlock’s breath hitched when one hand moved to his face, cupping it gently. “Sherlock, I love you.”

 

His orgasm sneaked up on him suddenly and Sherlock’s back arched, his fingernails dragging red lines over John’s shoulders. It blinded him, made him deaf, and when he came back it was to John brushing his hair back from his forehead, kissing him sweetly.

 

“I love you,” he blurted because it needed to be said and he was a bit annoyed that John said it first but John was smiling and Sherlock couldn’t stop saying it.

 

_I love you I love you I love you_

 

“Well?” John said once Sherlock’s heart had calmed down. He was flushed and Sherlock had never seen him so happy before. _You did this. You made John this happy._

“Did you like it? The sex, I mean.”

 

“Adequate,” Sherlock joked and John rolled his eyes before tackling him, Sherlock laughing loudly as John’s fingers skated over his ribs.

 

-

 

“Tubbs doesn’t like me very well, does he?”

 

Sherlock’s mind produced the image of the fat white 2D cat before his eyes found his older brother who was looking at them with disdain. Sherlock made a face at him while John looked back-and-forth at them, fascinated by their sibling rivalry.

 

“He’s just being Mycroft,” Sherlock replied breezily. John quirked his mouth at that then turned around to where Sherlock’s father sat in his armchair, the morning paper spread over his lap. “Does this happen a lot?” John asked, grinning when Sherlock’s father nodded solemnly, both of them ignoring Sherlock’s grumbling.

 

“Welcome to the Holmes household, dear,” Mummy sighed. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

 

“Oh, I will,” John promised, looking at Sherlock when he said it.

 

Promises were made and broken daily and Sherlock had had his share of disappointments, but with John, well.

 

John Watson felt permanent.

 

 

 


End file.
